by Elif Sezen
Third birthday
in front of me the cake of cut ribbons
as if the ribbons are my hair
newly cropped by them
those watercolor portraits glued to atmosphere
have always been me
Inviting the touch of discouraged plastic
(blackness conceals the palette)
discouraged memory-absorbers
discouraged Christmas decorations sold
by the cashier girl:
thieves!
…and a poem returned me my breath…
Mould makers, a weird heap
a salutation of sickly exaltedness illuminates my face
spinning, spinning, spinning
transforming my concreteness into red
a voice from behind spells out
the most important word of the century
Her being, on the threshold of a sterile emotion
my immortal sister, her last words:
‘this curtain made of ice never opened like this!’
this offering, smiles of venomous sky-plants
their existence decorated previously, their hands
separate the dimension beyond earth’s
…and an armour-plated Dvorak connected me to life…
Aged three
the cake of cut ribbons
fell on top of us
from a tiny opening
undoubtedly
the most beautiful day of our lives.
Last updated June 09, 2011